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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22364440">The Rhythm of Rebellion from the Rattle in your Bones</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenderqueerWriter/pseuds/GenderqueerWriter'>GenderqueerWriter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abuse, Angst, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Loss of Parent(s), Physical Abuse, Post-Canon, Redemption, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Trans Male Character, Transphobia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 10:54:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,006</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22364440</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenderqueerWriter/pseuds/GenderqueerWriter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The only chance he gets to be himself is tucked under another lie.  </p>
<p>Most of his life is a lie, and he's gotten tired.  When the bruises sting too harshly, and the alcohol smells more like death than drink, he has to run.  And in that time, when his with the newsies, he's safer than he ever has been.  It's good, more than that, it's great.  </p>
<p>Good things never last for Moira (Mike)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, The Great Brotherhood of Newsies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/11459400">Like Yesterday's News</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_fives/pseuds/captain_fives">captain_fives</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Okay so I died when reading Arden's Like Yesterday's News.  And then got inspired.  So here's my take on the concept with a twist.  Morris is trans, and known to everyone as Moira.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He dips his hands into the stream of water from the sink, running them through his hair and slicking it back.  When his hair is as flat is it will go he starts to attack it with bobby pins.  With a few tugs and a wince, he pulls his hair into a tight bun at the nape of his neck.  A sigh escapes him, and he drops his head, leaning it against the wall.  He breathes in and out a few times before he pushes back, straightening the hand-me-down clothes that were too baggy and short on his lanky frame.  </p>
<p>A shatter of glass echoes from downstairs, shortly followed by shouts of anger, and he flinches, swallowing.  Weisel was drunk so Oscar would be angrier than usual.  That never started or ended well.  Another shout, and ice-cold fear curls around his spine.  He allows himself one longing look at the tiny window over his bed, before shoving down all the rebellious thoughts of running away.  Time to face the music.  </p>
<p>Oscar grabs his wrist in a bruising grip as he comes down the stairs, lip curling into a snarl.  His silence, coupled with the lack of a fist to the head, bodes better for him that expected.  He ducks his head, and lets himself be dragged out of the door, into the yard.  After setting the alcohol on the sideboard, Weisel follows them, beady eyes already swelling and pink.  The newsies haven't reached the gate yet, and he has a few seconds to rub at his wrist, already starting to bruise in the shape of Oscar’s meaty fist.  Then the newsies arrive, Oscar's unlocking the gate, and it's time to start the day.  </p>
<p>The newsies are clamoring as he climbs the stairs to overlook the yard.  Ever since the strike they had been louder and bolder.  Oscar had to settle for angry glares and snapped barbs in their directions, unable to throw punches.  Unable to throw them at the newsies at least, he was still an available target.  Quiet, didn’t fight back, he just took the words and fists that flew at him.  The bruises on abdomen throb a twin pain with the hunger that clawed in his stomach, and he bites his lip.  He leans forward onto the rail, taking some of the pressure off by putting it onto the metal.  Only a little bit longer, then freedom.  </p>
<p>------</p>
<p>A shadow shifts, and Jack looks up, seeing Moira up on the balcony.  She'd been distant, for lack of a better word, since the strike.  While Oscar had been spitting with fury, she withdrew.  Not that he was complaining, all of the newsies were enjoying the changes from the Delanceys.  Antagonizing Oscar had become something of a hobby of a few of the younger kids, which Jack did warn them against.  This of course did not include the fact he found it just as funny as they did.  </p>
<p>Race bumps him, brandishing the paper in front of him.  "Nice headline, eh Jack?" He grins, "These'll sell like hotcakes."</p>
<p>He looks down, the headline was good, an explosion down in Harlem that had taken out 20 blocks of windows, which was definitely an easy to hawk bait.  The Harlem newsies must be thrilled, and making big bucks off of this one.  They would be as well, and the boys would be eating better than usual at Jacobi’s today.  </p>
<p>"Ain't that right Race." Jack pushes the paper away from his face.  "Course, you gotta try t' sell em first."</p>
<p>Crutchie snorts as he makes his way over.  "That's what'll catch 'im up.  And some a the others too."</p>
<p>There's another small movement in the corner of his eye, but before he can turn, Les runs into him, followed by Davey.  He’s distracted by the headline and his newsies, and as they stream out the gates, any thoughts about Moira have already fled his mind.  <br/>-----</p>
<p>He walks into his room, closing the door silently behind him.  For a few seconds, he holds his breath, listening, before striding across the room to where he hides his disguise at the bottom of his wardrobe.  As he wraps the bandages tightly around his chest, he can't help the small wince as his ribs twinge in the seemingly never-ending pain.  Oscar always liked to go for the ribs, probably because the marks were easy to hide.  He rolls the bottom of his pants up, and tugs the shirt over his head.  The hat is last, and he spends a moment shoving his hair, now back to its wild curls after being freed from its tight bun, into another bun, this one much looser and closer to the top of his head to slip it under the brim.  Finally, he grabs the bag of papes he had stowed there early this morning before the bell.  Uncle Weisel was already out of it with a bottle of hooch downstairs and wouldn't notice him even if he did a jig on his head, and Oscar had left right after the newsies had scattered to sell, probably to commit the highly illegal activities that he did not want to know about, so he only gives a cursory glance outside before climbing out the window.  He nimbly makes his way down, having had a lot of practice, and jumps the last few feet to the ground.  </p>
<p>The gate is locked up tight, but he's scrambled over it in a few seconds, dropping down and landing in a crouch before straightening up.  He walks into the alley, adjusting the bag over his shoulder.  With one last look back, he scrambles up the nearest fire escape, standing on the roof.  An endless expanse of rooftops and chimney pipes stretches out in front of him, familiar.  A small breeze whisks over, and he tilts his head up to the sun, letting it fall across his cheeks as a small smile tugs at the edges of his mouth. The day just started to look up.  Mike inhales, and takes off running.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>SO, I'm alive.  This Corona Virus Quarantine has got me being productive, so next chapter heh.  Be prepared for a point of view shift soon.  Hopefully it won't take me months to get 3 out.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Feet pound over the rooftop, and Mike flings himself faster and faster.  As the wind whips through his hair it buffets his face before he jumps off a chimney pot to flip over an alley.  His destination, The Brooklyn Bridge, rises in front of him, and he starts to slow.  Mike slides down a fire escape and reaches his spot for the day.  The bag of papes thumps down next to him, and he fans a handful out.  With a deep breath, he begins to call the headline out, and selling starts for the day.  </p><p>-----</p><p>Mike stretches, grabbing the now empty bag from next to him.  The papes had sold out quickly and he didn't grab many to begin with, just enough to make a bit of a profit.  He looks up at the sun, glad to see that there was still time before he had to be back for evening distribution.  The days where Mike had time like this were always better and he needed the win.  </p><p>His light feet soon brought him to the waterfront, where he let himself rest.  The sun beats down on pale skin and presses into fragile bones.  It eases the sting from some of his bruises and Mike can’t help the soft exhale that’s barely loud enough to be classified as a sigh.  </p><p>The workers from the dockyard wave at him, used to his continued presence at this point.  A couple of the mousers settle on him, furry balls of warmth that are even more used to him.  One fluffy tail flicks across his nose and he restrains the sneeze that it provokes.  Will grins down at him, as this isn’t a new sight.  Being still and quiet had led to him being claimed by the cats who inhabited the waterfront as their pillow.  Not that he was complaining.  </p><p>“Comfortable there Mike?” </p><p>He gives a thumbs-up, and a soft smile, well as close to a smile as he gets.  The brick against his back, the cats curled up in his lap, as well as the sounds and smells of the dockyard get to him, and his eyes close.  </p><p>-------</p><p>Mike swims in and out of a half sleep that he was lulled into for maybe half of an hour, until he’s roused by shouting that is far too close to him for comfort.  The only thing is that he doesn’t recognize the majority of the voices.  One voice though, is Crutchie, and he does not sound happy.  The fear in his voice is a punch to the gut, a reminder of what he did, what he does.  It almost makes him want to run, but he’s done too much running, and he’s trying to make amends.  </p><p>The two thugs, not much older than him, are cowards.  That gets proven right away, when Mike puts himself, all six feet, with wiry muscle and cold eyes, between them and Crutchie.  Picking on one newsie, who wouldn’t stand a chance is one thing.  They’re back with their friends though, and Mike can fight, but six against one is too much.  Crutchie gets this, and he’s dragging them both away with a hand on one skinny wrist.  </p><p>“Go, go, go!”</p><p>For all that he’s surprisingly fast, he’s still missing the use of one leg, so it falls to Mike to pick up the slack.  He knows these alleys though, all their twists and turns that got mapped out from above.  It takes them no time at all to lose their pursuers and end up in front of Jacobi’s.  Crutchie claps him on the shoulder, which is a stretch, what with the height difference, and somehow manages to steer him inside, where Jack appears to be losing it.  </p><p>At the appearance of Crutchie, he is all over him, checking for bruises and other injuries.  It blows Mike back a little, how much Jack cares about the other boy.  He’s always been surprised about how the Newsies took care of each other, called themselves a brotherhood, when what he knows of brothers is pain and fear.  </p><p>He’s lurking, tugging the brim of his hat down and hunching his shoulders.  Trying to appear smaller has never done anything for him but it’s instinct.  It’s only a matter of time until Jack is satisfied with his search, and turns to him.  The other newsies had spotted him, because he’s about 8 inches too tall to hide behind Crutchie, but they’re letting him go until their leader has his turn.  Which is right now.  </p><p>“Mike saved me.”  As Crutchie speaks, he knows that there is no way he’s getting out of here without any kind of confrontation.  In the weeks he’s been selling, this is what he’d been trying to avoid.  “Couple a’ Snyder’s goons were afta’ my tail.  He swooped in ‘nd scared em off.” </p><p>The look he gets is part thankfulness, and part analysis.  Mike was new, and strange; he didn’t stay at the boarding house, and what was known of him was little.  Crutchie pats him on the arm and makes his way to another table, where a few of the other newsies were seated.  There’s a tensing of muscles, a flinch, barely able to be seen.  Jack’s sharp eyes miss nothing though, and a gleam in them lets Mike know that he didn’t hide it well enough.  </p><p>Jack doesn’t say anything about that though.  “Well, now tha’ you’re here. why dontcha stick ‘round for lunch?”  </p><p>Once lunch is mentioned, his traitorous stomach decides to make itself known, with a pang that, if he wasn’t so accustomed to it, would have had him doubled over.  Jack hasn’t looked away, with a steady gaze that somehow made him feel as if Jack could see the way his organs were gnawing at him.  Maybe he could. The newsies have turned to him again, and all of the pairs of eyes on him tell him that leaving would raise more questions than staying.  </p><p>This was a Bad Idea, but he was weak, and he stayed.</p>
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